Tag Archives: Poetry

Pandemic, a poem by Lynn Ungar

Posted on: 13 March 2020

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

Lynn Ungar 3/11/20

Pandemic – Poem by Titilope Sonuga

It is this deep, dark, empty thing
caught between chest and throat
begging lips for relief in words.
The noise of 2 million heavy sighs

Our mother is dying
the one who bore us all
she lays in squalor and
we all pretend we never heard her fall

It is the regret of unsaid farewells
It is tongues caught mid-sentence
Quick whispered goodbyes
Tears frozen in eyes, too young still
quiet prayer, cast up in desperation

This steady rumble
commands our attention,
calls us from our apathy
Sudan, Uganda, Kenya,
Rwanda, Zimbabwe, Ethiopia,
Nigeria

Our mother is dying
the one who held us in her green and red and gold

It is motherless children
Cries un-soothed
Bottomless grief
It is stolen childhood
interrupted hop-scotch, freeze tag, hide and seek
cold and bleak

It is broken promises
Naïve trust
Gross mis-education

It is dreams unfulfilled
Stories left unfinished
Hope snatched from weary hands
Eyes deep with despair

This is not, sit and wait
Maybe later
This is not, so far away
Maybe some other day
It is today, it is today

Titilope Sonuga

MY NATIVE LAND BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

My Native Land

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,

As home his footsteps he hath turn’d

From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

 

Let America Be America Again Langston Hughes – 1902-1967

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

 

Words

Soft and gentle without a cause,
running towards a light that moves
Where to go after a pain like this and what to do.

It’s hard to say the right thing at the right time
when all you want to do is express who you are.

Pain, sorrow and anger is all words create sometimes.
How do you know when to say a word or keep your mouth shut?

Kind words are less spoken in these times and
more and more people are hurt by it than actions
It dries a heart that was ones filled with love for others
and now where does it lead –
To dust and dust alone;

Caring has been put aside and
anger and deceit has risen instead
why does this occur in such a violent way
It opens doors that should have been kept shut
and closes doors that should be open;

One brick at a time they say
In the end the wall around you will be finished
and you’ll be safe from the world outside
Now the choice is, who to let in and who to keep out
So many people so little trust;

Open eyes closed mouth.
All you see is a fading life,
from color to grey and grey to black
Slowly but surely life will seize to exist and
home is where I’m headed and
no one can stop it;

What is words if there is no meaning?
Words from the heart is better said
than words without a heart;